


Pictures of Woo Jiho

by milkwithcalsehun



Category: Block B, Kpop - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Artist AU, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health problems, Self Harm, Suicide, misleading title, trigger warning galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkwithcalsehun/pseuds/milkwithcalsehun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pictures of Park Kyung scatter across Jiho's mind to remind him of the definition of perfection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures of Woo Jiho

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for self harm, depression, and suicide.
> 
> The title was based off of a book called "Pictures of Hollis Woods"
> 
> Please enjoy

He moved like machinery. Every motion was calculated, every mannerism was perfected down to the last detail. He never spoke out of turn. He always knew the correct moment to smile, and he rarely laughed, but when he did, it was never too loud. He kept himself tightly wound in order to keep himself from falling apart. 

Jiho loved it.

He loved that Kyung was so mechanic. Kyung was like an empty shell, unchanging. Jiho liked to capture his likeness with pencil and paper, charcoals and elaborate shading. He would spend hours on end drawing Kyung to perfection, skipping no details, making sure that every line on the paper was one hundred percent Kyung. 

Jiho had hundreds upon thousands of sketches and drawings of just Kyung. He had drawings of them from when they were children, up until their current statuses. 

When they were young, the pictures of Park Kyung showed a happy boy, stick legs and stick arms, a big circle head slopped precariously onto a pokey neck, with a big smile underneath a bird nose and two lopsided eyes.

As the boys matured, Jiho's skills matured. The lines became more perfect, and Jiho's strokes with the pencil were sharp to match Kyung's jaw. Soon, Jiho was able to make Kyung's eyes sparkle on paper with the adolescent innocence that he breathed out during his every day life. Jiho was so obsessed with capturing the essence of Kyung that he abandoned any other muse he could possibly dream up in his head.

As the fleeting days turned into cumbersome years, Kyung began to hollow out. Jiho thought it was beautiful, artistic. It had also become possible to hold Kyung in his arms. Kyung was barley there, but Jiho showered him with love regardless and made sure that Kyung knew it.

He made sure with pictures and pictures and pictures.

-

Park Kyung often found his body draped over the bed like satin. His hands would be so delicately placed, one by his head and one by his side. His naked skin was carressed by the softest of fabrics, his body cradled in worldly comforts. His only job was to lie there. 

It made him want to die.

Jiho would sit there and draw him on paper, all the while telling him just how perfect he was. Then he would set the sketch book down carefully, and make his way to Kyung. He would run his hands all over Kyung's body, sweet, soft touches, a delicate kiss placed on his collar bones, a loving brush of fingertips over sensitive flesh. Kyung knew that Jiho loved him, and not just the drawings of him, the idea of Park Kyung, but he couldn't help but feel empty.

He was nothing but a shell.

-

Kyung had a habit of sitting in front of the fire place. Jiho kept it lit in winter, so that Kyung could stay warm and watch as the embers flickered and burned out against the stone. The orange flames licked up the chimney, and Kyung would reach, reach out to the pretty colors, until Jiho stopped him, because Kyung couldn't feel the pain on his skin.

Jiho thought that it was good that Kyung had a hobby, just not one that could hurt him.

Jiho cared for Kyung. He really did. It was more than his obsession with the perfection of Kyung. He had fallen for Kyung in a way that art couldn't even fathom. He loved the machine that was Kyung, and he loved that Kyung was the way that he was, but it worried him to his bones, through his marrow, through his cells, through every fiber of his being.

Kyung didn't feel anything.

Kyung knew his surroundings. He knew fire. He knew the bed. He knew the walls of that damn house. He knew the sketchbooks. He knew the pencils. He knew Jiho. He knew every inch of Jiho.

He was fond of Jiho.

Park Kyung was numb. Park Kyung was stone. Park Kyung was in the fire and had no idea until Jiho pulled him out every single day.

Fond.

-

For an artist, Jiho was good at words. At least, Kyung thought he was.

Kyung would lay his head in Jiho's lap sometimes while they were sitting on the couch, staring at the fireplace as it crackled and blazed. Jiho would stroke his hair, try to calm him, as Kyung let tears slip down his cheeks that he didn't even feel.

"Someday, I'll give you what you deserve, Park Kyung.," Jiho would say, and Kyung would let out a garbled sound.

"I still see fire in your eyes," Jiho said softly, and Kyung would let a hollow chuckle breeze through his lips.

"What fire? All I see is dead," Kyung would say slowly, as if the words were foreign on his tongue.

"I need you, Kyung," Jiho whispered.

"You need my body," Kyung said bitterly, and Jiho reached for his hands.

"I need you. I need you, by my side, every day. I could care less about the drawings, about the pictures. I have millions of them. I just have them for you to understand what you mean to me, who you are to me. All the pictures of Park Kyung are meaningless if I don't have the real Park Kyung with me," Jiho said while looking at the ceiling as if he were talking about the weather or something else just as mundane.

"You don't need me," Kyung said, and he tried to turn away from him, but Jiho had his hands, and all he could see was Jiho.

"You don't know what I need, Kyung. I need you like I need the air I breathe," Jiho was looking him in the eye now, and Kyung could feel the intensity in his eyes, and he didn't like that. Feeling.

"Whatever," was all Kyung could come up with, and Jiho laughed humorlessly, and Kyung didn't like that at all.

"I love you," Jiho said, and he squeezed Kyung's hands.

"I know," Kyung said dully, life drained from his voice.

"Then come back to me," Jiho said, and Kyung turned his head away this time, because he didn't want to see the hurt on Jiho's face anymore. 

"I didn't go anywhere," Kyung mumbled, the same monotone he's mumbled for five years, and Jiho knows he can't save him with words.

"I love you," Jiho repeats, and Kyung nods.

Jiho never expects him to say it back.

-

Kyung found a new hobby.

Jiho didn't like it at all.

He found out about the hobby when he was undressing Kyung, spreading him out before him, for his eyes only, empty sheets of sketch paper, sharpened pencils. Kyung's skin was vulnerable, out in the open, naked, and Jiho could see every inch, could see the perfectly measured out red lines cut across his body, put there deliberately. So calculated. So Kyung.

"Why," was all Jiho could say, and he put his sketch books and pencils away. He draped a blanket over Kyung and laid next to him on the bed.

"To feel," Kyung said simply, and he curled into Jiho.

"Did it hurt?" Jiho asked, and his arms were around Kyung, pulling him into what he hoped felt like safety.

"Not enough," Kyung answered, and Jiho could feel his tears against his own naked skin.

"Please don't cry," Jiho begged.

"Does it hurt?" Kyung asked, and he knew he was crying, but he didn't stop it.

"Living with me," Kyung says, and Jiho breathes deeply, and his eyes went to the ceiling again.

"Of course it doesn't," Jiho lied, an obvious lie, Kyung saw right through it.

"I know it does," Kyung said.

"You're talkative today," Jiho said in a weak attempt to change the subject.

"Don't brush it off. And please don't lie to me," Kyung said, his voice, his eyes, his spirit, empty.

"It does hurt, okay. It hurts to watch you self destruct," Jiho said, his voice a flat line, powerful enough to crack Kyung's shell.

"I knew it," Kyung said, and he curled himself deeper into Jiho, signaling that he was done talking.

Jiho was kind of glad.

-

The next day, Jiho found Kyung asleep in front of the fire place, two fresh lines on his wrist, with a note next to his sleeping body that read, "I burned two of your sketchbooks. Sorry."

Jiho just shook his head, bent down, picked Kyung up, and carried him to the bed.

-

Two weeks later, Jiho found Kyung's razor collection, stained with blood because Kyung didn't even wipe them off after use.

Jiho hid them, but he knew they would be found again anyway.

-

Five years was a long time.

Jiho was tired.

He looked at his pictures of Park Kyung, tried to see a change over time. Tried to see a morph from happy Kyung to miserable, empty, nothingness Kyung. He found the fake smiles from high school, the frowns from college, the flat line of today. He found Kyung, and it hurt.

-

Five years was a long time.

Kyung found himself in the same house, with the same slate gray walls, for five years, looking at Jiho as he found and lost hope.

Kyung was tired. He'd always been tired.

Jiho had removed all the mirrors in the house since Kyung broke one their first year living together. But Kyung could still catch glimpses of himself in the windows.

And he looked tired, even though he slept all the time.

Maybe he had grown tired of seeing Jiho all the time. Jiho never left the house, he just sold paintings and drawings of things that weren't Kyung to get them by, and they had plenty of money. Neither of them were very expensive.

He knew he had grown tired of himself. Tired of feeling his own skin covering his body, tired of knowing that he was around. Tired of causing Jiho pain.

Five years was a long time.

-

Jiho found the note taped to the wall where the bathroom mirror should have been. He found the note when he found Kyung in the bathtub, two nice, careful, vertical lines slice up each arm, his blood all in the tub and on the floor.

Jiho held the note to his chest and he sobbed, and he held Kyung's hand until he couldn't take it, and he stood up, bent down, picked up Kyung, and carried him to bed one last time.

He laid him across the bed, draped like satin, on the softest of fabrics, and he drew him, and he cried, and his tears marred the lines on the paper, but he kept going, until he captured Kyung in death in a way that he couldn't in life.

Jiho called the emergency line to tell them of the death. He told them where he found Kyung, but he told them that there was no note. That note belonged to Jiho.

Jiho spent that night on the stained sheets, cradling the note, the last piece of Kyung he had left. He cried through the night and tried not the let his tears mar the lines of Kyung's words:

"I love you. I'm sorry."

-

Pictures of Park Kyung were scattered all over the bedroom floor, through the hallways, and over the stairs. They were on the walls, the ceilings, any surface Jiho could cover. He had to remind himself of Kyung in everything he did. He couldn't forget. 

He had to remind Kyung too.

He had to remind Kyung that he loved him, and never would stop. He had to remind him that five years was a long time.

He stopped lighting fires, and closed off the fireplace. He finally changed the sheets; the Kyung smell was fading but the smell of blood was bringing ants. He divided half of Kyung's wardrobe. He slept in half of Kyung's clothes, the other half, he saved.

Every single picture he had of Park Kyung was removed from the floor and place on the wall. All six thousand, five hundred and seventy-two of them. The house was covered.

He had to remind himself.

Or he would begin to fall apart.


End file.
